Chocolate Turkeys

As I write this, cases of Covid-19 continue to soar beyond anything that science may have expected. I don't feel the particular need to document that for posterity. There won't be a moment in future history in which this will be forgotten or not referred to. Pre-Covid Days will be the source of millions of opening discussions and grandchildren will have something new about which to roll eyeballs.  The fact that we will never be the same will be not a fact but a way of life. That new "never same" will one day be business as "usual" and none of this could have been predicted. Despite what so many ardent citizens profess, most of this could NOT have been prevented. Human beings just aren't made that way and without leadership, they fail miserably at just being human. Period. End of sentence.

I have been out of the country for at least five Thanksgiving holidays. My family hasn't counted me in their plans. Life has gone on with turkeys circling around me and my absence at the table has been well-tolerated. Were I twelve years old again, I am sure that would not be the case. Were I twelve, here's how it would have been.......

My grandparents lived in the Bronx, New York in the house my mother grew up. They occupied the ground floor and my grandfather's brother, Peter, the top floor. Two brothers, their wives and a total of five children all called it home and all returned for holidays. Thanksgiving meant a full-house, both floors. This meant weeks of preparations, dozens of trips to local food stores, and huge waves of excitement as the women of the house anticipated the beginning of the holiday cycle. Guest lists were never discussed. Everyone, without question, would be at the table.  As the years went by, more chairs were added to accommodate new family members, some requiring orientation to the ways in which true Italian immigrants celebrated a true American holiday. The words "I've never seen as much food" were spoken by at least one new guest per year. Never failed.  It took my grandmother an entire week and two stoves to prepare and lasagna was just a starter. No, I take that back......the foil-wrapped chocolate turkeys, one for each grandchild, they were the real "starters" and she never forgot them. Nor will I. Nor will my brother, as confirmed during a phone discussion yesterday. Years later, my own mother continued the tradition and added a new one, the gift of an Advent calendar. My children knew that the holiday season had begun and then, years later, my own grandchildren thrilled at the very same simple gestures.

The Thanksgivings of my childhood and young adult life were warm and cozy. The memories, worth millions. The pain of visualizing the now-empty seats at the table, still fresh and new, each time.That table. Huge and mahogany. Opened to its fullest, covered with pads and a huge cloth. If it could speak. There were political discussions, arguments, endorsements, rulings, outbursts, demands and commands, most of which, led by my grandfather. A post-dessert expectation. We all knew it would be coming and we all sat through it.  As we grew up, we developed our own ideas and opinions. As the years moved on from the forties through the seventies, the generation to which I and my cousins belong, moved on as well. There were health-related discussions. Fears, anxiety. Assurances that came not from doctors but from family members who skillfully practiced the art of wishful thinking. Pronouncements of "but your haven't lost weight....so that's a good sign", coupled with "you'll be fine" interrupted the rantings of my tireless grandfather. My grandmother never participated in discussions other than to say "That's enough Louie!" when she realized that the bliss was being overtaken by the views of our patriarch. She usually won and out would come the pies. And the fruit. And the nuts. And the naps. And the setting sun.

Before departing, we would have made our way up the stairs and wishes for a happy Thanksgiving would have been exchanged with cousins and second cousins. Then, off into the evening we'd all go. My brother and I, asking our father to please, please put the radio on in our car. Cousin Brucie and music to dream on as we clutched our little chocolate turkeys and headed home, our house, the place where Christmas would be celebrated, just weeks after Thanksgiving, by the very same group of people. 

Fast forward (and it does seem like all of that was just "yesterday"), Thanksgiving 2020. Abandoned in the cold of the night, two little chocolate turkeys, purchased with love of tradition and care, left behind on our patio by their recipients, along with two "winter face masks". Remnants of a dinner, the day before the actual holiday, outside. On our patio table. No first cousins, no second cousins. Just the setting sun and the last two chocolate turkeys I will ever purchase. The final attempts at normalcy.  There's no turning back. I'm just so comforted by my memories, those I can still share with my brother and husband and am saddened by the lack of interest in holding on to traditions and in being a part of future memories on the part of my own grandchildren. Their memories will be shrouded by the memory of a Pandemic, nothing more. 

Never Promised You a Rose Garden

 I rarely watch network T.V.  Fortunately, I need not.  We have 2 'Smart" televisions, a Roku and our beloved "Prime", all of which allow for selection of some pretty fabulous viewing minus the intelligence-insults brought on by commercials and speeches by the biggest waste of viewing time, Donald Trump. CNN and real news shows are pretty much my limit. I prefer print to audio/visual presentations. I wasn't surprised to hear that our president "does not read" and that he learns all he has to (wants to) know, from FOX. This information, from his own sister who did not know her thoughts were going to go public. She had nothing to gain by being honest about her brother's shortcomings. The truth is the truth. 

So, I must admit, I have spent very little time watching either presidential candidate in real time.  I did catch up on speeches cast by a few key figures during both conventions and via YouTube, and credible news sources, watched, in horror at times, party members boasting about their exploits and promising a better America. I will let you rest in peace about your personal selection and hope for the best. Transparent about this, I cannot promise I will be.  It's too important to me on so many fronts. Furthermore, I don't think either party can or will be totally honest nor will either be able to deliver their personal agendas as they want voters to believe. Rarely has that happened in the history of the presidency. But never, in that history, has our country been so low.  America has always been a place of dreams, a place of honor and a place of power. A place of pride. A place to call "home" and a home of envy. I have never, ever been embarrassed to identify as a citizen of this country and have taken pride each time I answered the question of my residency.

Of course, all of that has changed.

The Rose Garden has been re-designed. The new version, a sign of the times. The roses are gone!

So much has changed.  And, it is getting scarier by the minute, just being an American. I know I am not alone in my fears. I know that my ancestors and yours as well, had fears and many of them are still alive to tell. While they may not have had Smart T.V.'s, or any for that matter, they may have seen newsreels while at the then-affordable theaters in their neighborhoods as they awaited the latest film from the latest Hollywood heartthrobs.  Surely, the film that followed brought comfort but I am certain that most of them left the theater fearful of their futures, having seem images of a world at war and a madman at the center of the destruction of humanity. 

And so, I am left to wonder, as I plow through the images of the past few days, the Republican National Convention, the one during which hundreds of not-so-smart American citizens exposed themselves to what the First Lady labeled as an "invisible" enemy, by flouting all scientifically proven methods of infection control during their attendance at Trump's speech.....what was the message?

Oftentimes, it's pictures that do the speaking. Another reason why I chose to not glue myself to the television. And, with that, I leave you with images. Brand new images. Pictures that might make you think about the images your ancestors who put down their dimes and got a dose of reality before a dose of romance on a big screen. 

The White House Rose Garden, minus the roses. Looks like a triumphant march site instead. Heil!

This is Melania's revision of the once beautiful rose garden.  All set for the tanks on parade.

Melania in her Nazi uniform

Heil America!

 

R.I.P.

Last month, on  hot and humid New York day, not far from her birthplace and home for most of her one hundred and five years, my husband and sister, along with family members in face masks, buried, literally, their matriarch. Into the grave which already was home to a daughter and a husband. Under a mercifully-placed shade tree.  The graveside service followed two hours of a somewhat traditional wake. An open casket. An assembly of far less than would have been expected had we not still been in the throws of a pandemic that won't quit.  The second pandemic experienced during the lifetime of my newly-deceased mother-in-law.

Her death did not come as a surprise. Rather, the end of a gentle roll. My husband who spoke to her every day for the past twenty-plus years, admitted to himself, at least, that she "left" us months and months ago. Her mind was blissfully elsewhere.  Her body, free from chronicity, just wouldn't allow her to travel back to meet up with the pre-deceased but I have a feeling that there were conferences and plans for a summit were in the waiting.  If anything, my husband and his family have been known for taking a long hard look at things before making decisions.  She, especially, was known to have scanned every weekly food store flyer before making her shopping list.  Never having driven, she probably had little notion of how much patience she extracted from first, her husband, and later, her children, as they transported her from store to store.  Gas and mileage were never factored into the "savings" that she would realize and triumph over. A "sale" was a "sale" and good value meant the world to a woman who grew up during the Great Depression, remembering each and every challenge as if it had happened the day before yesterday. A stockpile of coffee in her basement meant the equivalent of a gold mine. Pandemic after pandemic, this was a woman who would not have run out of toilet paper. 

There are stories.  There will be a million more.  You cannot possibly live one hundred and five years without amassing a tome.  Her home, the one in which she lived until her final moments, is filled to the rafters with stuff of life.  A child of the depression, she never forgot the angst of not having, and she had all that she needed, and then some, in her married life.  Reluctant to part with things in which she saw value, comfort or beauty, my mother-in-law left closets filled with clothing and a house filled with dishes, bric-a-brac and furnishings.  The next few months will become an emotional roller coaster as her family pulls that long history apart, dish by dish, figurine by figurine, dress by dress.  I recall having done that with my own parent's house and one day, when my father, the last of our living parents, passes from this life, his possessions will hardly fill a small box.  I don't know which scenario is sadder. 

My husband and I have now realigned ourselves in the family order.  We are the "elders", the generation that we replaced.  Our children and grandchildren will be looking at us with new eyes, a new perspective. We'll be weighed and measured, spotted and checked on in ways to which we are not accustomed. Yet. 

End

The Baixar Cross

This is the absolute end of the Camino de Santiago

               The granite posts are route markers and they are lifelines along the entire way.

It's easy these days to allow my brain to select memories of some of the best days of my adult life.  We still remain limited in our choices of new experiences, and "Covid-19 Days"still tend to run on into each other with  few highlights.  So, it seems rather natural for a glance backwards, ruminating  and relishing memories of a delicious past. In Pre-Covid days, I may have simply hurried on my way to newer memories, gathering mental images that time did not allow for expansion.  As I start another day I am feeling the need to take advantage of, instead of damning too much, free time. So I sat myself down with the hope of recapturing some of those backward glances and savoring them for all their worth. After all, isn't that what life is made up of, memories. 

Along the northeast coast of Spain, in the province known as A Coruna, lie two towns considered as  the last of the possible stops  for pilgrims along the way of the Camino de Santiago, Muxia (moo SHEE ah) and Finisterre (AKA Fisterre).  If it was the film "The Way", that first captured your interest in the Camino, you may remember having seen Martin Sheen completing his journey at Finisterre, often referred to as "the End of the World".  It was here that the bereaved father cast the ashes of his son into the majestic sea.

I love every memory of our days on the Camino, doubting that anything else in my life to come could hold a candle to that experience. Our journey, in celebration of my seventieth birthday, was completed in five days of perfect weather, during the last week of April, 2018.  We officially ended our Camino in the city of Santiago de Compostella, feeling exhilarated and happy after long days of hiking the ancient route. We had arrived at our destination and all the "ifs" were past-tense.  We spent the next three days leisurely strolling, no deadlines or destinations. Our Camino passports were full, no more need to get them stamped.  We passed muster at the Pilgrim Office and received our Compostellas, certifying that we had, indeed completed the required 100 kilometers.  Santiago days were for relaxation and celebration, eating tapas and taking it easy after five days of walk, eat, sleep, repeat. So, no, we did not feel guilty when we boarded a luxury bus  two days later and settled into our  comfortable seats for an all-day excursion to the Finisterre.  The sky was blue, the air was perfect and the views were extreme.  Along the way, we saw pilgrims still on their journey. While most end their Way in Santiago, there are a number who chose to stay on foot and travel on to the very, very end. An hour and a half bus ride would have netted out to several more walking days. Had this been a celebration of an earlier birthday, we might have considered this option.

The coastal route was spectacular.  Living near the sea, I still never tire of seascapes.  As our bus twisted and turned through tiny towns that dot the coastline, we were able to sit back and just enjoy. A few short stops at some very scenic locales and then on to Muxia for lunch.  Of course, octopus was part of that meal as it was most of our meals in Galicia. We luxuriated at a seaside cafe and followed it up with a walk through the town, I accompanied by three other American women.  Joe ventured out on his own.  Having been together every moment for the previous two weeks, the time away felt odd, especially when the bus was about to depart and he was nowhere in sight.  Thank God for small favors....a red backpack was spotted by one of our companions and soon we were on our way again.  

The final stop on our bus route was the breathtaking Finisterre. As the bus wound up the hill, the rest of the world slowly slipped away and the beauty of the most Northern tip of Spain was revealed.  The Baixir Cross greets pilgrims who next seek the final marker of the Camino. Beyond that, waves crash against huge rock formations that lead gracefully out to the sea.  The entire point is an observation area, the boundless beauty marked by relentless sprays of ocean against nature. Symphonic. Shade of blue and green, mixed with silvery white show up with each crash, non-stop. Gorgeous. Majestic. Only words. One would have to be there to fully grasp this, this overwhelming feeling and stunning appreciation of Man meeting Sea and, in the end, Sea the greater force. A perfect way to end our Way, or any way, for that matter.

After all is said and done, the Camino de Santiago is a perfect metaphor, one that is completed at the 

End of the World.

Memorial

Eight years ago, last week, my beautiful mother gave up her guard, changing forever the way I personally approached the start of what millions of others in this country refer to as the "Independence Day" holiday.

The months and weeks before her death were sad and trying for us but she faced them with dignity and bravery that set a mark.  An extraordinary woman, a unique mother, and one of the smartest people I have ever known.  If I had half of her intelligence I would be very pleased.

My mom would have been 94 now. My father, still alive, is 98 and has dementia. Most of their generation of relatives are either deceased or very old.  I have no family historians, nobody to whom I can turn for answers so I have gaps in my knowledge and very little information about my family's past, other than the stories that were told over and over during my own childhood.  I have puzzle pieces that oftentimes just don't fit together. I have a maze through which I cannot come and feel left out when my friends recount stories of their parent's heritage. I think my mother's favorite color was blue. I know she loved the water, everything related to the seashore. I know how she and my father met. Her eyes were soft blue. She struggled with her weight all her life and had problems accepting her image. My father was the first and only man she ever dated. They meet in high school. Courtship, engagement, the War, the wedding. I have the photos and tiny bits of stories of young love and devotion. Never once was "sacrifice" mentioned. The word "regret" also never appeared. I am left wondering. It was none of my business. Secrets were part of the success of their marriage.

Wisdom beyond the stratosphere. World-class speller and mathematician. She knew diddly-squat about history, American or World.  She wasn't allowed to learn the language of her parents and knew little about their lives before their immigration. They made it to America from a life of poverty and they were not turning back; they instead, moved proudly forward and it was through their actions that my mother learned the customs and culture of her ancestors in their homeland. She was an Italian Woman. We never missed a family vacation but we never ventured across the ocean as a family. She had a work ethic and, from the time I was two years old, she held a full-time job.                                                                                           

 Being home all day with children was not fulfilling and I wonder now, had she been like all the
"other moms", how my life might have turned out. I try very hard to wipe away thoughts of having been deprived as a young child, of a full-time mom, and to realize that she sacrificed a field of flowers for a mountain peak of great memories. My childhood experiences and memories included some very special moments of quality time. It took me years to appreciate that and now, I accept it as a gift that only she could have imparted. How very fortunate my brother and I were.

It's true that oftentimes we only realize what we have, after we lose it.  It's also a sad realization that we miss opportunities in our lives to speak our hearts with those closest to us.  I wish my children could embrace that knowledge. Alas, they probably won't. They are humans too. They are busy and productive, the generation that rides on the tails of generations before, the culmination of all that their grandparents dreamed possible, genetically capable of doing great things, just as we were before them. After all, is it not the greatest wish of a parent, to see their own children enjoying the fruits of their own years of labor in the garden of life? I wish I had taken the time to discuss life, to find out more about the lives that shaped mine, to know more about my mother than what I saw. To know more than what I perceived.

We can't go back and re-live our lives.  How very trite that sounds. Mine has been, and forever will be, missing a part, an integral piece of who I am.  Trite. True. 

 

False Gods Before You

All will be well, all will be well, all will be well. I've been given that mantra by a friend who finds it useful.  It's not new to me.  I've tried it, and a thousand other mental exercises, but none really do the trick, none bring relief or any resolution to my increasing fear of doom and my giving up of the guard. I don't buy it. I don't really believe that all, or anything for that matter, will be well.

At first, I welcomed the changes that the arrival of a global pandemic brought. After all, we thought it was going to be a short shot, that in a few weeks, Covid will have come and gone and we would have been well over it and all of its consequences by early Spring.  I distinctly recall our nation's "leader" giving his opinion and he stated that "by Easter" this "thing" would be gone.  He was surrounded by people who, we assumed were giving him scientific advice on an hourly basis.  He had resources, brilliant and trusted resources. He had an assigned place on the leadership team of the world's most influential country. And, he blew it.  He blew it so badly that instead of taking pride in my American residency, I hang my head in shame and shake my head in disbelief and wonder each and every day about how this person has not been taken out of the White House and into a mental health facility for treatment.  But, that's his problem.  Mine, the result of his lack of leadership, his racist, sexist, immoral and downright ignorant missives during a time when he should have been upright, honest, empathetic and moral, isn't going away. I don't play golf, I can't escape to a bunker, I can't ignore what is around me. I can't lie and tell people that I am not an American.  I don't believe in mantras. I don't believe in America and I would be happy to take the advice of those people who are still foolish enough to enjoy the leadership of a madman and yell to people like myself...."America! Love it or leave it!".  I don't love it and I can't even leave it now.  He's spun a new web around us. We're on a list. A short and embarrassing assortment of countries who, God knows how long,will not be allowed to enter Europe or even Canada.  

This man, this insane person in the White House, this Trump, has totally taken us down with him. This evil monster who duped people into thinking that he had a plan to "make America great again", has done what so many (thank you God), others had predicted he would.  He's made America the laughing stock of the entire world. No, America is not great. America is weak and Americans have suffered more than their share during the Pandemic and will continue to suffer from the effects of a virus that won't quit and  a weak and ignorant president who has destroyed more lives than any pathogen could possibly have.

So, go Mr President, go play golf, go shoot off your large and un-attractive mouth. Go about your business of looking at yourself in your mirror of deception and go about your business of insulting people of intelligence and belittling people who are smart enough to know how smart you are not.  Go ahead and destroy any glimmer of hope that we may have while you continue to hope for re-election instead of humbling yourself and getting the job of uniting your country.  Go ahead and alienate world leaders, call them names, deny your involvement in their evil deeds.  Go ahead and think you're God.  I have news for you.  You're not.  But, I will give you credit for something.  THE God did speak about you. In fact, you are a fairly popular guy.  If you don't believe me, look it up. I've provided you with a list of references. the Bible, by the way, is not simply a prop for a photo-op, a bad photo at that.

 Or just google false gods.

• Leviticus
• Numbers
• Judges
• 1 Samuel
• 1 Kings
• 2 Kings
• 1 Chronicles
• 2 Chronicles
• Isaiah
• Jeremiah
• Hosea
• Zephaniah
• Acts
• Romans

What is Missed

There are hundreds of words that could describe the feelings and reactions that humans are sharing since the arrival of Covid-19.  The media runneth over. Our conversations with friends and family members allow us to wash and wear our emotions and over and over as we sort out how we are "doing".  We're all just trying to keep our heads above water, really, as slowly we drown.  We come up for air just long enough to realize that the surface we desperately seek is far from the relief that we had wished it would be.  I can clearly recall the words of friends as this all started....."hopefully, this will all be over by the Summer.....if it's not.....??????" The Summer is officially here now.  There's no turning back to make it different. The drum has rolled and we're dancing to a new beat.

 We  await a current set of statistics, those that will reflect the outcome of relaxation, either by defiance or government decree, of the "rules" that have successfully contained the Virus, flattened the so-called curve.  I suspect that we are in for some surprises.  And, I am in the group that believes that we are still in for the long run. I hope I am dead-wrong. 

I take a self-inventory every so often, assessing the impact of all of this on my life. In those hundreds of possible words, only one rises to the top, one makes it through the pounding surf of emotional waves. Spontaneity. That's what I am missing. That's what we all are missing and have been since late March of this year. The simple acts that used to be woven so gently into daily life, making them virtually un-noticed.  Going out for a morning coffee with a few good friends for a chin-wag, stopping by to visit a shop owner, collecting ingredients for a special meal. Doing art together. Browsing in a thrift shop. Hugging, kissing, shaking the hand of a new friend. Using hand sanitizer wipes on the handle of a shopping cart just out of habit, not necessity. Acting on impulse.Selecting dates and making travel plans, casting fate to the wind.  The bliss of anticipation, counting days until departure, packing slowly and dreaming of being transplanted to happy places. Getting a haircut. Buying an ice cream. Sitting on a beach at sunset, grasping onto the last of daylight and feeling sad that a day has ended. Not looking forward to a day's end, to the catapulting of life into a brighter future.